Red Hammer 1994

“Mechanical controls check out,” he announced, relieved. “No sign of trouble with any of the engines.” He glanced right once more. Hundreds of gallons of precious fuel were being atomized by the rushing air.

“We’ll never make it now,” he groaned, slumping in his seat.

Buck ignored the protest. He held the control stick in one hand and grabbed the aeronautical chart in the other. A glance showed them less than one hundred miles from the mountainous spine that separated Europe from Asia. Two formidable obstacles blocked his path. Layered SA-10 batteries, backed by older SA-6s, would make the Americans earn the protection of the Urals. That plus the second-string interceptors orchestrated by the GCI sites. If he hesitated, the pursuing Foxhounds would chase him down. He prayed that the fireball had been sufficient for the MiG pilot to score it as a confirmed kill and move on.

“Ledermeyer, stand by for defense suppression!”

Ledermeyer edged back to his station, staring at the maze of switches, buttons and digital readouts curved around his ejection seat. Taking a last look at Jefferson, his jaw tightened as he flipped a Plexiglas cover shielding two rows of sequentially numbered buttons. Twenty-two pairs were dimly lit, one for each SRAM missile resting in the weapons bays. He punched the first, triggering a digital readout to life. A light signaled the warhead ready to accept a data stream.

“Target,” he said. He closed his eyes and said a prayer. For all the hours in training, he was about to fire a nuclear weapon in anger.

Buck barked out a grid number while Ledermeyer punched the coordinates into a keypad. Fire-control software converted the ASCII digits into precise targeting data. The computer performed a sanity check based on a target database generated by satellite photos.

“Target accepted.”

Buck shouted a second stream of digits as Ledermeyer repeated the procedure for the next SRAM.

“Standby,” Buck ordered, leveling the bomber. Ledermeyer crisply depressed the first missile’s arming button while grabbing a mechanical level near his leg. The bomber’s forward weapons bay doors swung open with a metallic thud, revealing the rotary launcher. The launcher whined as it positioned the proper bird.

“Fire one.”

The pointed, thin missile dropped silently from the bay, wings and fins popping from the fuselage. Hanging in midair, a bright burst of orange flame signaled the solid rocket motor springing to life. The SRAM jumped in front of the bomber, disappearing off into the distance at supersonic speed. The second trailed by a short ten seconds.

“Number two away.”

In forty-three seconds, the first SRAM would detonate thirty miles down range to port of their track. The second would follow three seconds later to starboard, at approximately the same range. The two missiles, packing a double 150-kiloton dose, would vaporize the older SA-6 sites and catch any mobile SA-10s within weapon’s range, smashing fire-control radar antennas and crushing control vans and launchers.

The downside was that minutes later, they would be forced to forge through a no-man’s land carved out by the nuclear detonations in their lightly shielded bomber. Calculated aim points had provided a theoretical corridor of nearly a mile in width, but Buck knew they would catch significant radiation flying near the reddish-black nuclear clouds. He studied his watch, mentally counting the seconds. Suddenly a brilliant flash engulfed the entire sky, as if the sun had unexpectedly dropped in for a visit. Specially coated faceplates attached to their helmets protected them from the destruction power of the UV light. But the double thermal pulse cooked them in their heavy flight suits. Stinking sweat poured down their faces. Heat exhaustion was a real possibility. The bomber’s ventilation system worked overtime.

Awestruck, they didn’t notice the second fireball emblazoned against the afternoon sky. The incandescent fireballs roiled and tore at the atmosphere.

“My God,” cried Joe, frozen in his seat. He mumbled something else to himself, his eyes locked on the toroid’s that blocked the sunlight, their surfaces constantly shifted by violent winds sucking up cooler air from below.

Buck experienced the same numbness. It was impossible to describe how he felt at that moment. The first real thoughts about the wave of death he was about to unleash hit home. The power contained in the belly of his bomber took on an almost religious air.

“It’s the end of the world,” he muttered. “The goddamned end of the world.” He knew at that moment that he would die regardless of any skill or luck he might possess. And maybe that was fitting.